Untitled by Monica Znider

Untitled

by Monica Znider

Little bouts of culture shock can hit at any time. They're more likely when you're alone, you're suffering a mad migraine, it's pouring rain, and that stupid umbrella of yours keeps nailing e\er\oneyou pass in the head. The Japanese usually forgive a gaijin (foreigner) for most faux pas committed in ignorance, but when your sopping umbrella beats them against a wall, the understanding smiles and happy nods are GONE.

You're on your way to the store because you ran out of shampoo this morning. Your head is killing you. Your students were disobedient, distracted, and downright e\il, and all you want to do is strip these pantyhose off (Who INVENTED these things? They should be shot. In the HEAD. REPEATEDLY). snuggle under your duvet on three layers of futon (Stupid things are so THIN.) and SLEEP, but no. You hate to brave the torrential downpours of the newly begun typhoon season to get SHAMPOO.

After about forty- minutes wandering around a store about the size of your closet back home. You're fighting back tears. You can't find the shampoo because you can't READ anything, and you're so frustrated that if one more employee yells " Irrachaimaei!" at you, you are liable to rip her head off. To top it all off the sound system is belting out the older version of "American Pie." and you're just longing for America, Walmart. and English at this point.

So you grab what you think might resemble shampoo, count out entirely too much change, and bolt. You're walking home and searching every shop you pass for something American, something in English, something FAMILIAR. No luck until you pass a coffee shop.

(Coffee. Familiar. Warm. Reassuring. You duck into the store and seaich the menu (which is in ENGLISH! Praise the LORD!) for something soothing.

Then you begin to feel stupid...After all, you're a missionary in Japan. For a YEAR. You can't be rampaging the country for an American pleasure every time you get frustrated at the grocery-store, especially because that's bound to happen on a daily basis. "FINE," you think, and order the strangest thing on the menu.

"Coffee Jelly'', "you say confidently to the smiley girl behind the counter. Coffee; what!? WHAT did I just order?

She takes your money and places a tray in front ot you. On the tray is what appears to be a

single-serve liquid creamer, but from prior experience you know it's actually liquid sugar. A genius invention, you must concede. In the middle of the tray sits a small, glass bowl half full of a brown substance with what looks like whipped cream on top.

"Oh dear, "you think. "I was expecting a DRINK, what is THIS?"

You sit down next to one of the twenty- chain-smoking Japanese customers that crowd the small shop, and bow your head.

You rush through a form of prayer, essentially turning it into one long word - "Dear Lord, please bless this . . . THING... And help-it-nourish-and-strengthen-my-body-Amen." Quite honestly, you're just a little bitter at God right now for sending sou here. You dip your spoon into the qui\ering brown mass, battling anticipation and revulsion.

You taste. You swish it around your mouth.

And you discover that the Japanese will turn ANYTHING into Jell-O. Including coffee. And the whipped cream is actually vanilla soft serve. And you LOVE IT.

Then you realize something. You may not have all the conveniences and comforts of home, but home certainly doesn't have coffee jelly. Even though you're homesick, lonely, frustrated, and angry at God, He brought you here for a reason and has more blessings in store for you than just coffee jelly. "I think I can make it a year here after all," you decide, "God, me, and coffee jelly."